Bloody Tourists td-134

by Warren Murphy

  "But I can tell you he was disguised," the bartender offered. "I saw him in the parking lot. I lock myself in here and grab the phone for the cops and I look out back." He nodded at the grimy window over his shoulder. "There he was, writing in his notebook."

  "Huh?" Remo asked.

  "That's what I thought," the bartender agreed. "Just a quick note. Then he rips off his eyebrows and his hairpiece and he drives off."

  "In what?"

  "The car? Couldn't tell."

  "See what he looked like without the fake fur?"

  "Naw. Back's dark."

  "You been a lot of help."

  "I think the state of Tennessee is really mad at you guys," the bartender offered as a megaphone down the hall demanded the surrender of all occupants of the office. "That's just perfect," Remo grumbled.

  "Really?" Chiun asked with raised eyebrows. "You mean to say this is going as you had intended?"

  Chapter 10

  "The State of Tennessee multidepartmental task force has established an irrefutable link between the incident at the Big Stomp Saloon, the Mafia and the Yakuza." Harold Smith's voice was more sour than usual.

  "Is that so?" Remo replied in his best not-in-the-mood-for-it voice. Trouble was, he'd been using that voice a lot lately, and nobody seemed to get the message.

  "They report their crime scene was aggressively compromised by two men posing as federal agents."

  "Us?" Remo asked.

  "It was not us, Emperor," Chiun called out, never turning away from the television set. He was sitting on the hotel-room floor staring at the screen.

  "One elderly Asian and one Caucasian male, age indeterminate," Smith reported.

  "That's what they're going on?"

  "There's more," Smith said. "I'm getting into the Tennessee crime database now."

  Remo sat on the hotel bed and listened to Smith tap the keys. The tapping stopped but Smith said nothing. "Let me guess," Remo volunteered. "It's the shoes and kimono."

  Smith spent a long time saying the word "Yes."

  "So we go in there and get what you asked for despite a bunch of Southern-boy attitude, and all they see is a pair of Italian loafers and an Asian guy in a bright robe. I don't know what's more amazing-that they came up with the Yakuza and Mafia theory or the fact that you think we blew it."

  Smith considered that. "You may have a point," he admitted. "Still, you overreacted. You put an investigator in the hospital."

  "We could have put him in the morgue," Remo countered. "On the other hand, we could have left when they said, 'Sorry guys, no Feds allowed at our crime scene.' For future reference, which choice should we make next time, Smitty?"

  While Smith hemmed and hawed, Remo watched two Mexican actresses with flawless makeup have a conversation in Spanish, one on either side of the small silhouetted skull of the Korean Master of Sinanju. As the poorly acted discussion became more dramatic, the woman with the artificial mole began extruding tears. The camera moved in for a close-up of the perfect glycerin drop just as the drama faded to commercials. Then came a news break with a video clip from some political dinner, where the guest of honor looked about twelve.

  "So what now?" Remo prodded. "You want us to go run some prints through the crime lab, maybe? How about we round up some usual suspects? Maybe we could do something really useful like look through the mug books."

  "I hope we'll have some direction for you by morning," Smith said.

  "Which means right now you've got nothing."

  Smith made a weary sound. "That's right. Nothing."

  "You feeling okay, Smitty?" Remo asked.

  "I feel fine," Smith snapped back.

  "You oughta take a nap."

  "I don't need a nap, and it's a luxury I can't afford regardless."

  Remo hung up slowly, but his thoughts were interrupted by a seething hiss.

  "What's the matter?"

  "You did not notice this? This?" Chiun spun on him and jabbed a bony hand at the television screen.

  "The television? The news anchor? Give me a hint."

  "Fah!" Chiun uttered in disgust. "This news break is now in its second minute, coming after two one-minute commercials. This dramatic series is edited for breaks of three minutes each."

  "Since when do you know all this kind of programming junk?"

  "Since I watch the program and happen to pay attention to the world around me. You do not. How you notice the door is closed before you walk into it is a mystery of the ages. The point is, they are butchering the drama with irrelevant anecdotes that pass for substantive journalism."

  Another video clip now showed the same youthful looking honoree in an expensive suit. "What is he, the world's oldest Boy Scout or something?"

  "Less important still-the idiot president of an island that is vying for independence," Chiun said with disgust. "He is some sort of hero to the Puerto Ricans who watch this television channel."

  Remo sneered. "That kid's too young to be president of the chess club." Then a thought occurred to him. "You mean vying for independence from us? America?"

  "Cretins!" Chiun spit as the news break ended and returned to some Mexican soap opera sobbing, already in progress. "They defile art to show us their foolish news footage of feasting imbeciles!"

  "Art?"

  "Hush! I know your taste in drama and it is as valid as your negligent appreciation of literature."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Silence. I have missed too much of the story already. If I had not already watched the episode this afternoon, I would be forced to have the programmers of this station coerced into replaying it at once."

  Remo didn't argue the point. The last thing he needed was to be browbeaten into paying an unsocial call on the poor engineer running the boards at the local Latino TV station.

  It was just the kind of busywork he'd have a hard time squirming out of if Chiun got the idea in his head.

  Chapter 11

  The phone buzzed softly. The couple on the veranda tried to ignore it.

  She was gazing over the tops of the palm trees, watching the golden blazing ball of the sun descend on the glimmering mirror image of itself on the surface of the Caribbean Sea. The moment they touched was like a melding of fate-linked lovers.

  "Exquisite," murmured her companion, his hand creeping atop hers on the stone rail. The phone, thankfully, went silent.

  "You're not even watching it," she chided gently.

  "It's not the sunset I'm talking about, Minister." Union Island Minister of Tourism Dawn Snmmens felt something special in the unique golden rays of the sun during those precious moments as it was swallowed by the sea. It felt different from the first light of the morning, and somehow she felt it infused her with a special radiance. This notion had come to her when she was just a teenager but stuck with her ever since.

  When she joined the government of Union Island she appropriated this office for its unparalleled sunset views. When the former occupant protested, Summens saw the demand as a challenge to her new authority. The former occupant now had a cubicle on the ground floor. "I don't think you appreciate my view, Senator."

  "But I appreciate mine," Sam Switzer, Republican senator from Utah, said glibly.

  Summens all but rolled her eyes, but her words were complimentary. "Very witty, Senator. But I was talking about my view on the Free Union Island movement."

  "What?" The senator looked confused.

  "You have not looked at this issue from my point of view."

  His mouth hung open and the sagging flesh of his cheeks hung just below his jawline. "You're right. I've never even stopped to consider your perspective. How stupid of me."

  "Now, there, not stupid," she assured him. "You're just a little too narrow in your thinking."

  The senator was suddenly stricken. "Oh, mother of mercy, you're right. I've got to open my eyes to the world! I've been wearing blinders all my life!"

  "No, it's not as bad as all that," she said reassuringly, an
d at that moment the phone began to buzz again, annoying as a mosquito. "I'll be right back."

  Summens strode through the custom French doors she had ordered from a Michigan woodworker and snatched at the phone on the desk. "Yes?"

  "Good evening, Minister Summens. This is President-"

  "I can't talk now."

  "Come on, Dawn, I gotta talk to you about something. I'm getting worried."

  "Call later. One hour. Make it two."

  "Aw, come on!"

  Dawn hung up and practically sprinted onto the veranda, but the damage was done. The senator had run with her suggestion and was by now way, way out in left field.

  "How can I vote against abortion rights when I've never had an abortion?" he demanded, tears of shame in his eyes. "Why did I fight for tax cuts when I never even listened to my opponents' reasons for wanting tax increases? And will you please tell me what gives me the right to introduce antigay bills when I've never even gone to the trouble of experiencing sex with another man?"

  Summens thought furiously. What was it she'd said exactly? Had she suggested he needed to see all sides of the story? It had been something like that. Christ, this was the only dose she had been entrusted with in a month and she was on the verge of blowing it, big time. "Senator, listen to me," she said in a clear, loud voice. He stopped talking, his attention riveted on her.

  "The freedom of Union Island is the most important issue before the Senate right now. You must make it well known that you now support the Union Island Freedom Bill, and you need to put resources into corralling support for the bill. It must pass."

  "Of course. it must."

  "With enough votes to override a veto," Summens added. ''And there can be no amendments to the aid package."

  "I won't let them trim so much as a single dollar," the senior senator agreed emphatically. "Union Island needs U.S. dollars just as fervently as it needs independence from the U.S." His old, wrinkled eyes drew together. "Now, why is that again?"

  Summens patted his arm. "You'll come up with very clever arguments to support your position. You can't wait to get started."

  The senator nodded, his posture erect with new purpose. "My dear, you must forgive me if I cancel dinner and our little tryst. I have suddenly realized how vital it is for me to get involved in this campaign immediately."

  "Of course I am disappointed," Summens said, although the truth was she never intended to sleep with the man. "But I understand. It's for the cause."

  Before she could suggest he not do it, the old slimeball had mushed his slobbering lips against hers. It was over in an instant, though, and he left in a hurry.

  He'd better come through for her, she thought, or next time she'd suggest he go for a long walk off the short roof of the Congressional Office Building.

  Summens was angry with herself. She had handled the senator badly. She could count on one hand the number of times she had been entrusted to perform a dosing alone, and this time she almost lost control. She'd probably ruined the senator's career as it was-his constituency might not go along with his new views on contentious issues. No matter, so long as he kept his job long enough to help ram through the Union Island Independence Bill.

  She needed a good dinner to get the taste out of her mouth. She had reservations for two at Cafe Amore, but maybe she could just order in.

  Then she remembered that the president would be trying to reach her in the office in a short while.

  That was a very good reason to be anywhere else.

  Chapter 12

  "Sheriff Pilchard here," said the monotone voice on the other side of the door.

  Greg Grom unlocked the dead bolt and tried to open the door, but the little brass security thingy brought it to halt. Grom closed the door again, silently swearing at the little brass thingy for making him look like an idiot. The worst thing ever was to look stupid.

  "Sorry, Sheriff," he said to the unsmiling statue of a country sheriff.

  "Quite all right." The sheriff followed Grom inside and sat without invitation in an easy chair in the parlor. "I don't suppose you'd accept a drink when you're on duty."

  "I suppose I would. Scotch."

  "Oh. Okay." Grom found a bottle of Scotch whiskey behind the bar and poured while his guest looked casually around the expensive suite.

  "Some room, huh?" Grom observed sheepishly.

  "Cleaned up a triple in this room 'bout nine months back," the sheriff announced.

  "What's a triple?" Grom asked, sucking on a bottle of Corona beer.

  "Homicide."

  The beer went into his lungs, and he hacked it up for two minutes. Then he said, "I see."

  "Looks like they recarpeted. Guess they would've had to." The sheriff chuckled without losing his dour expression.

  "Yeah. Heh."

  The sheriff looked Grom dead in the eye. "Guy used a fan blade off an International Harvester OTR rig." The sheriff shrugged and reclined with his drink. "It was convenient. Trucker had it parked at the motel next door. So the guy just tore it off and came in here swinging the thing."

  "Imagine that," Grom said.

  "Not a sharp edge to it. Took some work on the murderer's part. Made a hell of a mess."

  "I bet..."

  "Poor trucker started his rig the next morning and heard this awful noise and popped the hood. Found his fan all out of whack and some of it missing and he reported the vandalism. That's how we know what we know."

  Grom had been trying desperately to think of a way to steer the conversation in a new direction, but now he said, "You mean you didn't find the weapon."

  "Oh, yeah. Few weeks later. Twenty miles outside town alongside the road in a culvert. Couldn't get prints or anything useful off it by that time. So, well, you know."

  "I know what?" Grom demanded.

  "You know, we couldn't positively ID the killer. Know who he is, of course, but the son of a bitch is walking around free as a bird until we get physical evidence ...and what was it you wanted to talk to me about exactly?"

  Grom drank more beer as he tried to catch up to the conversation. "What about the Big Stomp?" he finally managed to ask.

  The sheriff nodded, revealing nothing, but his cooperation was a foregone conclusion. The man wasn't stupid enough to not cooperate with a man like Greg Grom.

  "The investigation continues," the sheriff said. "There was an interesting development at the crime scene."

  "Like what?"

  "The crime scene was infiltrated. Based on the evidence at hand, we're fairly certain the Nashville Azzopardi Family has formed a joint venture with aYakuza branch. Their purpose is undoubtedly to launch a protection business specializing in high-profit, private, unregulated businesses, such as the Big Stomp. Their interest in our crime scene is obvious-whoever poisoned the well needs to be taught not to tamper with organized-crime businesses in the Kentucky-Tennessee district. In other words, they want to find the bad guy before we do."

  "Oh." Grom's head was swimming. "Do you think they will?"

  The sheriff finally showed an emotion in the form of a smug twitch of the colorless lips. "Mr. Grom, we're professionals. Highly trained. Superbly equipped. We're not going to be outsmarted by a bunch of import thugs."

  Grom let out a silent sigh, nodding with what he hoped looked like dispassionate satisfaction.

  "Good to know you people are on the job," he said condescendingly as he walked the sheriff to the door. "What did these men look like, anyway? The men who came to the crime scene?"

  "Well, that's not an easy one to hammer down. Nobody seems to have gotten a good look at their faces. But I'll tell you this much. One of them was a Far Easterner, old as Moses and no bigger than my dog Bert when he gets on two legs to give me a face lickin'. Other guy was just some white feller. I guess he must look like all us white fellers."

  As the sheriff was on his way out the door, Grom asked, "That's the best description you have?"

  "We have other clues to their identity," the sheriff said, and t
old Greg Grom about the federal IDs.

  The sheriff was the one looking sheepish now. "Who knows?" he said, donning his hat. "Maybe they really was just a couple of nosy Feds."

  Greg Grom closed the door, bolted it and moved the annoying little brass thingy into place for extra security. Then he raced to the other doors and windows of the suite, checking and double-checking the locks. All the while he was talking to himself about the possibility of a pair of nosy Feds.

  What he actually said was, "Oh God oh God oh God..."

  Chapter 13

  At first Remo thought it was the snoring that woke him from an easy slumber, but he was accustomed to Chiun's honking and wheezing. His senses told him there's nothing out of place in his environment just the typical squeaks, groans, smells and grumbles of a hotel in the middle of the night.

  So why was he not asleep?

  Remo Williams, Reigning Master of Sinanju, was not the type to wake in the middle of the night with a niggling problem. But there was something. Wasn't there?

  He rose silently from the floor mat that was his bed, strolling to the window and contemplating his view of the gravel parking lot.

  "You dreamed it," Chiun squeaked.

  "Dreamed what?" Remo asked.

  "Whatever scary thing roused you."

  "I didn't have a bad dream. I was thinking."

  "Of course. And I suppose I was snoring."

  "Matter of fact, you were snoring," Remo said.

  "No, you were dreaming," Chiun said in kindly condescension. "Where else but dreams do you experience one highly improbable thing after another?"

  "Like maybe a talking goat?"

  Chiun sat up. "Remo, was there a talking goat?"

  "Yes, there is."

  Chiun's lips came together as tightly as Remo had ever seen them, his face going crimson. Chiun stood, the door slammed and Remo was alone in the hotel room.

  Served the old biddy right. Taste of his own medicine. Slice of his own sour-grapes pie. Chiun had been a thorn in the keister for months. It seemed he had been getting increasingly grumpy and withdrawn ever since the Time of Succession, when Remo had finally donned the mantle of Reigning Master of Sinanju.

  Remo hadn't really expected much change. He didn't believe that Chiun was going to start following Remo's lead or stop trying to drill his head full of five thousand years of Sinanju history, and in truth that hadn't happened.